‘To be honest, Henry really wasn’t a lot of use.’ I tried the bell again. ‘Ellie had just been diagnosed. Most of the time he was plastered. And when he wasn’t, he was on the phone to her oncologist. He and Docherty played mentor and student at the press conferences, but really the magician’s apprentice was doing all the work.’
The intercom bleeped, and a low, clipped Scottish accent rode out on a wave of static from the speaker. ‘She doesn’t want to see you, Jimmy, take the hint.’
I leaned in close. ‘It’s the police. We need to talk to you about Jessica McFee.’
‘Again?’ What might have been a sigh. Then, ‘Hold on, frickin’ buzzer’s broken…’
Alice shifted her grip on the brolly as the wind caught it again. ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to tell people we were the police any more?’
‘It sounds better than, “Hello, we’re not actually police officers, but we’re part of a team of old-fart specialists who’re sort of assisting the official investigation, only we’re not allowed to tell them anything, because our boss is on a scheming power-trip.”’
‘True.’
There was a clang from somewhere inside, echoing down the stairwell.
Alice bumped her shoulder into my arm. ‘So Henry didn’t come up with the behavioural evidence analysis?’
‘Could barely walk straight half the time. He reviewed everything Docherty did though… Or at least, he said he did.’
She bit her bottom lip, shuffled her feet. Then fiddled with her hair. ‘I think we need to ditch the profile and go back to the beginning.’
A pair of shoes appeared at the top of the stairs inside.
‘I mean if Dr Docherty came up with the original profile and Henry rubber-stamped it without really reading the thing, it’s no surprise Docherty’s just regurgitating it for Unsub-Fifteen, he’s wedded to the ideas he came up with eight years ago because he thinks Henry agreed with them, but they’ve never been subjected to any real scrutiny.’
The feet descended the stairs, bringing a pair of jeans with them, then a red strappy top with a butterfly picked out in sequins, showing of a jiggle of cleavage. Finally the head – sun tan, cherry lipstick, eye shadow, blonde hair in a long bob with a fringe, a sparkling glass necklace around her throat. A bit done up for twenty-to-twelve on a Tuesday morning.
Alice dropped her hands to her sides. ‘We need to pick up some more whisky.’
The woman stopped on the other side of the door and squinted at us, her voice muffled by the glass. ‘Can I see some ID?’
I fished out my expired warrant card and she nodded, then pressed the button by the side of the door. A grating buzz. We pushed in, out of the rain. Stood, dripping on the mat.
Behind us, a ripple of flashes caught the glass door, as the hyenas finally realized we might be worth photographing.
The woman folded her arms, increasing the cleavage. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you? You’ve found Jessica and she’s dead.’
Nurse Thornton opened the bedroom door and wafted a hand towards it. ‘This is Jessica’s.’
The place was a mess: drawers pulled open, their contents spilled on the floor; wardrobe empty; mound of coats and dresses, trousers and shirts piled on the bed; duvet crumpled into one corner, pillows on top of it. The rainbow-coloured rug on the floor was barely visible.
She sighed. ‘I tidied up after the first lot searched the place yesterday, but I’ve not got time to do it again. Taxi’s coming at twelve.’
I stepped over the threshold. Did a slow three-sixty. Then pointed at a rectangular patch on the wall, delineated by dust. ‘Them?’
‘No, that was Jessica. Smashed the frame into a million pieces, tore the photo up, and burned it.’
Hmm… I picked my way through a drift of underwear to the window. The room backed onto Camburn Woods, thick and dark and glistening in the rain. A couple of paths wound away into the forest gloom. ‘Miss Thornton, did Jessica mention anyone who’d been hanging around? Maybe someone who made her feel uncomfortable?’
‘It’s Liz. And your mates asked all this. Both lots.’ She turned on her heels and click-clacked off down the corridor. Marking time with the music seeping out from the living room.
Alice sniffed, poked at the corpse of a green jumper with her toe. Her voice was barely audible as she frowned at the mess. ‘Back to the start. What do we know about the Inside Man…’
I followed Liz Thornton through into the kitchen. It was big enough for an electric cooker, fridge freezer, small table, sink, and a washing machine. She opened the fridge door and pulled out a small yellow tin of tonic. Then delved into the freezer for a bag of pre-made ice cubes and a bottle of vodka. ‘You want one?’
‘Can’t: pills.’
‘Anything good?’ A glass from the cupboard got half-filled with clinking ice.
‘Arthritis and a gunshot wound.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ A slug of vodka, topped up with tonic. ‘And if you’re thinking it’s too early to be drinking, I’ve been on nights for a fortnight. It’s about eight in the evening for me, so technically this is a sundowner.’ She nodded at the cupboard I was leaning against. ‘There’s a bag of cashews in there.’
I pulled it out, ripped it open, then poured them into the proffered bowl. ‘She was your friend?’
Liz’s bare shoulders dropped an inch. ‘Why do you lot always ask the same questions?’
‘Because they’re important, and we want to get Jessica back.’
A sigh, then she took a sip, closed her eyes. ‘Happy birthday to me.’ The nuts rattled in the bowl as she dipped into them. ‘We’re supposed to be off to Florida for Christmas. Her, Bethany, and me. Renting a villa.’ Liz picked up the glass with her fingertips, holding it palm-down as she clacked through into the living room.
It was a decent size – posters and framed photos on the walls, a stack of DVDs by the TV, books in a case beneath the window overlooking the car park, two sofas covered with tartan throws facing each other across a coffee table littered with magazines and a random pile of bits and pieces. Rod Stewart crooned from the stereo, telling everyone how he was clueless about history, biology, science, and French.
The television was on, with the sound turned down. Dr Fred Docherty stood in the middle of the screen, talking to some serious-faced woman in a green suit. A ticker scrolled across the image beneath them: ‘HUNT FOR SERIAL KILLER CONTINUES IN OLDCASTLE • JESSICA MCFEE CONFIRMED AS LATEST VICTIM • FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST SAYS KILLER IS GETTING REVENGE AGAINST MOTHER • …’
Little sod. So much for no information gets out except through formal press briefings.
Liz sank into the sofa. Picked up the remote and killed the TV. ‘You’ve never rescued any of them, have you? I remember one of the poor cows coming in – I’d just started at CHI, only been on A&E a week, when…’ A frown. ‘What was her name, Mary Jordan?’
‘Marie.’
‘They brought her in and there was blood everywhere. I held her hand as they rushed her straight into surgery… That’s what’s going to happen to Jessica, isn’t it?’
‘Not if we can find her first. Did she mention anyone?’
‘Pfff. You mean the “Camburn Creeper”?’ Liz took another swig of pre-noon sundowner and made a couple of cashews disappear. ‘Dirty sod was hanging about here for weeks. Taking photos. Caught him going through the bins one time, probably hunting for old pants and used tampons. Had to pelt him with the recycling to make him sod off.’ A grin. ‘Wine, gin, and vodka bottles. Should’ve heard him scream, running off with hands over his head, glass exploding all around him.’
‘Good for you. What else did he do, other than the rubbish?’
‘Oh, the usual. What frickin’ idiot thought it was a good idea to back the nurses’ halls onto a chunk of woods? The number of times I’ve had to call security because some perv’s up a tree with a telephoto lens or binoculars while we’re changing.’
; She reached beneath the coffee table and pulled out a big leather handbag. Picked a lipstick and a BlackBerry from the random pile of stuff and dumped it inside. Followed by a comb, purse, keys, pen… ‘Of course, security come running straight away to chase the perverts off.’
‘That’s something.’
A laugh. ‘Do they hell! If you’re lucky they’ll stick a form through the letterbox the next day asking for “details of the alleged offence”.’
Alice appeared in the doorway. Shook her head.
I creaked into the sofa opposite. ‘Did you give them a description?’
A card wallet, collapsible brolly, and another lipstick disappeared into the bag.
‘I did better than that – I took a photo of the dirty sod when he was hanging about the car park one night.’ Liz dipped back into her handbag and came out with the BlackBerry again. Fiddled with the buttons for a moment, then held it out.
A man – had to be at least six feet, going by the Fiat 500 he was standing beside – in a black bomber jacket, black woolly hat, black jeans, and black gloves. His face was blurred, caught in the middle of moving. The phone’s camera hadn’t been quick enough in the low light.
I squinted, moved the phone away from me and back again. Did he have glasses? Maybe a moustache-beard thing? Then again, it could’ve just been a shadow cast by the lamppost between the camera and the Fiat. Almost impossible to tell.
On the CD player, Rod launched into ‘If You Don’t Know Me by Now’.
‘Did you show this to the other police officers?’
A blush turned her neck pink. ‘The first lot spent the whole time staring at my breasts. I was getting ready to head off for my shift, and I was in a towel, and so frickin’ angry with them… Second lot acted like they were James Bond or something. I…’ She looked away, went back to stuffing things in her handbag. ‘I forgot it was on my phone till just now.’
I handed the BlackBerry back. ‘It’s OK, probably nothing anyway. Any chance you can text the photo to my mobile?’
I gave her the number and she thumbed the buttons, still not looking at me. ‘Jessica said he followed her to work a couple of times. Home too. Then, about a week ago, he just stopped coming around.’ The phone in her hand bleeped. ‘Or he just got better at hiding.’
Alice settled next to me on the couch. Picked up a couple of DVDs, turning them over in her hands. ‘I like The Bourne Identity, but I’m not too keen on the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, don’t you think Daniel Craig looks a bit like a monkey, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I find it a little off-putting…’
‘Suppose.’
The phone in my pocket trembled – that would be Liz’s text. I pulled it out and forwarded it on to Sabir:
I need this cleaned up and sharpened
I want an ID ASAP – check sex offender’s register
And can you do something about these bloody ankle tags???
Alice put the DVDs down. ‘The photo Jessica smashed, was that the Jimmy you mentioned when you answered the buzzer?’
A grimace, then Liz knocked back a mouthful. ‘No. Jimmy is Bethany’s ex-husband. He doesn’t seem to get that she’s not his emotional punch-bag any more.’ She looked at me. ‘Don’t suppose you could harass him a bit, could you? Pretend he was a paedophile or something?’
My phone trembled again:
God, Ur not shy, R you? What did Ur last slave die of?
‘He done anything to her? Smacked her around? Anything we could do him for?’
Liz blew out a breath. ‘Never mind.’
‘So,’ Alice scooted forward, ‘the photograph?’
‘Jessica was going out with this bloke – well, boy really – from Human Resources. Darren Wilkinson. Very clingy and needy. All over her like she’d evaporate if he wasn’t touching her.’ A shake of the head and a roll of the eyes. ‘Then one day he sends her a text saying he didn’t want to see her any more and he was moving on with his life. Dumps her by text message. How frickin’ pathetic is that?’
I put the phone back in my pocket. Sabir might be a moan, but he’d get on it. ‘When was this?’
A little crease appeared between Liz’s neatly plucked eyebrows. ‘Last Thursday? No, Friday – I know because she’d been planning a trip to the pictures to see that new French film, and she’d got tickets and booked a table for dinner, and she was getting all dolled up to go out when the text came in. Standing there in her bra, new skirt, and four-inch heels swearing a blue streak.’
And two days later she goes missing.
Liz laughed, not loud, more of a small, slightly smoky chuckle. ‘Tell you, her dad’s some sort of lay preacher, but by Christ that woman could curdle the air when she wanted to.’ Then silence. ‘I mean she can. Not could. Can.’
Alice nodded. ‘It must be a bit weird, all living here together. Did you know Claire Young?’
‘Not really. Yeah, I’d bump into her at work, or in the car park. Maybe once or twice at a birthday party, or a flatwarming.’ She waved a hand at the window, where the rain lashed against the other two buildings. ‘I know it’s old-fashioned, but living here’s about the only perk we get – cheap rent and a bit of community spirit. Course, the scumbags want to sell the place off for development. Cost-cutting my arse, it’s profiteering.’ She rummaged in her handbag and came out with a creased sheet of paper, half-covered with signatures. ‘Don’t fancy signing our petition to save the halls, do—’
A jingling ringtone blared out of the BlackBerry and she snatched it up from the table. ‘Hello? … What, right now? … No, no, I’ll be right down.… Yes.’ She pressed a button, then sat there frowning at the blank screen. ‘It’s the taxi. Bunch of us are going to the King’s Hussars for a curry. It was supposed to be a birthday treat.’ She looked up at Alice, blinked a couple of times, then wiped a palm across her eyes. It left a smudge of mascara on her cheek. ‘I don’t want to go without Jessica…’
Alice reached across the coffee table, over the piles of gossip and car magazines, and took her hand. ‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. What would Jessica want you to do?’
A small, brittle smile. ‘Stuff myself with poppadums, lamb Jalfrezi, and sauvignon blanc till it’s coming out my ears. “You don’t turn thirty every day, Liz,” she’d say, “might as well enjoy it.”’
‘Then that’s what you should do.’
She stood, laughed. ‘God, look at me, better fix my face or the taxi-driver will freak.’
I levered myself out of the couch. ‘Before you go, give me Jimmy’s name and address. Call it a birthday present from Police Scotland.’
32
The corridor wall was cold against my back, leaching through the damp jacket to the chilled flesh within. ‘No, Mackay. M.A.C.K.A.Y. Jimmy Mackay, last known address: Flat 50 Willcox Towers, Cowskillin.’
Rhona repeated it back to me, slowly, as if she was writing it down at the same time. ‘OK, got that. Don’t worry, by the time we’ve finished with him, Jimmy’s not going within a million miles of his ex.’
‘Thanks, Rhona.’
‘Ash?’ She coughed. ‘Look, I’m really sorry I told Ness you think the Inside Man might be a cop. I didn’t know it was meant to be a secret. Honest.’
‘Well … just make sure Jimmy Mackay gets the fright of his life.’
‘Deal.’
The doorway down the hall opened and Alice backed out, talking too quietly to make out more than a couple of words from where I stood. Then she leaned into the flat and hugged whoever it was.
Alice backed away again and the door closed. She stood there for a moment, then slumped in place, took a couple of deep breaths – arching her back – then turned and gave me a weak smile. Waved.
I limped over. ‘Well?’
She rubbed a hand across her face. ‘Claire Young’s flatmates are entrenched in stage three of the Kübler-Ross model – the whole place is like a mausoleum.’ Alice shook herself.
‘I’m sorry you had to leave, it’s—’
‘It’s OK. I understand. They don’t need some policeman intruding on their grief.’
‘Pfff…’ She stepped in close and leaned her forehead against my chest. ‘We did some NLP and some talk therapy and I feel like I’ve run a marathon carrying a washing machine on my back…’
I gave her shoulder a rub. ‘That us?’
A nod. ‘Can we get something to eat?’
I turned and guided her towards the stairs. ‘The hospital canteen’s rubbish, but there’s usually a chip van parked outside.’
Building A’s stairwell was lined in glass, rather than concrete, with views into the dark boughs of Camburn Woods on one side, and the car park on the other. At least there weren’t any journos lying in wait at the front door.
Alice drooped along at my side as I limped over and opened it. She paused beneath the portico, struggling with her collapsible umbrella. ‘Can we walk? From here to the hospital?’
Outside the wind had dropped. Now it just hammered straight down, bouncing back off the paving slabs and tarmac in a ricochet mist. Battering the trees and bushes into submission.
‘You sure?’
‘For the last two hours we’ve done nothing but drink tea and talk to people in pain, every breath tastes of loss and panic and yes I know that sounds melodramatic, but I’m trying to think like he thinks when he looks at nurses, and now I’m tired and I just want to walk in the rain and not have to wallow in fear and grief.’
‘OK…’
She held her umbrella up, so I could hobble in underneath it. Slipped her arm through mine so it’d be above us both. Stepped out from beneath the portico and into the downpour. ‘A choir of power and pain.’
We followed the path from the front of the building around the back, where it snaked off in three directions – right: back towards the gloomy brick lumps of Buildings B and C, straight ahead: into Camburn Woods, and left: along the fringes of the undergrowth, dead lampposts sticking up like bones towards the granite sky.
A Song for the Dying Page 27
